


Ghost

by Morpheus626



Series: Lee's Rock/Queentober 2020 [5]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: Randomly assigned lad for this prompt: RogerThis one is sad. Just a warning right out. Set in November of 1991.TW for death and grief, though Freddie’s death isn’t described in detail or anything like that, just referenced as having happened.This is Roger, after. Grieving, figuring out what the future looks like, and where he goes from here.
Series: Lee's Rock/Queentober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950265
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21
Collections: Dork Lovers Server Challenges





	Ghost

He doesn’t believe in ghosts.

Not exactly, anyway. Is there Something in each person that makes them, them? Sure. 

But it isn’t something to be judged by any man in the sky, or to be designated to any sort of Heaven or Hell.

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, so he ignores the odd things, the first time he steps back into the studio alone, after Freddie is gone. 

And he is truly alone. In the studio space in his home, no producers, no other musicians. 

Just him. 

He couldn’t even say why he’s there, exactly. Yes, there are things that need working on and finishing, but he can’t quite bear doing any of that yet. 

It’s only been days, after all. Not months, or years, and even then, what on earth does that future look like now? 

“Very grey,” he mumbles to himself one day, as he ponders it. 

As if in response, his cup of tea spills. Somehow, from sitting perfectly level and stable, to a mess that he rushes to clean. 

When he falls asleep there later, head on the mixing board, the flickering lights wake him up. 

It’s purely habit, his response. “Freddie, I was only resting my eyes.” 

The tears well up as he lifts his head. It isn’t Freddie, pulling one of his usual tricks to wake him up after a full day at the board. It’s a short in the electricity, and nothing more. 

He knows he needs to go out. To eat, see the kids, get outside for a minute or two, do something else other than this.

Instead, he waits until everyone is asleep to dash out and steal a pillow and blanket that he can secret away into the studio. 

Now, when it’s actually the right time to sleep, he tosses and turns. It could in part be because he’s trying to sleep on the studio floor, but that certainly isn’t the only thing causing this. 

His eyes only start to close again after a few hours of fighting with his own mind. The room feels hazy, but he can hear Freddie hard at work, humming out a melody. 

“You need to sleep too,” he warns him groggily. 

The only reply is a warm laugh, and a “Go to sleep, Rog.” 

Finally, he does. 

When he wakes, a track is playing, and a note has been set near his head. 

‘The Show Must Go On’ blares on loop, and he knew he hadn’t put anything on before falling asleep. But he’s too out of it to question it, or the note, in not unfamiliar handwriting. 

_‘Call one of them. Brian or John, either, both, but call them. Please, just talk to each other.’  
_

He sets the note down, and gets up to pause the track.

He hits the button, but it doesn’t pause. 

He presses it again. Nothing. 

“If I promise to try and call them now, will you let me pause it?” he asks aloud. 

He waits a moment, then hits the button again. 

The track pauses. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Thanks, Freddie.” 

The idea of going even a few feet out to the phone in the hall seems like a mountain. 

But he can’t go back on a promise, especially not one made to Freddie.

He nearly hangs up, as the phone rings. Just before he can, the line picks up.

“Hey Rog,” Brian sounds as rough as he does, and it’s strangely soothing. They’re both battered, but they’re in the storm together, at least. 

“It’s really good to hear your voice,” he manages to choke out, before the floodgates open for both of them. 

The call is nothing short of a mess, but it’s a good, cathartic, necessary mess. 

He doesn’t believe in ghosts. 

But he does believe in Something. If nothing else, in the friend still trying to look after them. 


End file.
